First Impressions
by busy pushing up daisies
Summary: One day, Harry meets a god. 2."It'll be several years before they meet again. And Harry doesn't know if it's worth the wait." No longer a oneshot, because. On hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

One day, Harry meets a god.

* * *

1. Harry dies.

2. Harry dies and wakes up again. It's cliche and ironic, but Harry can't find it in himself to laugh. One moment, he is an old man, tired eyes drooping to welcome the darkness, and a warm hand encircling his own, whispering about how she'll meet him in the next life. He murmurs his agreement, and finally, rests.

But, he wakes up. Opens his eyes to a brightness that burns his retinas, and lifts a hand to shield his eyes. There is a dull ache in his throat, a numbness to his facial features that hurts, and he gives a shuddering gasp. There is something heavy in his pocket. Swallowing thickly, Harry straightens, reaches into his pocket. His fingers meet a smooth, small, surface, and Harry realizes with a sickening nausea that they'll never let go.

The stone is heavy and Harry releases it back into his pockets, eyes burning.

3. The cloak appears one day, tangled around his legs like they were always there. The Elder Wand is wrapped in it's silk, and Harry's stomach threatens to vomit. Of all three possessions, he favors the cloak the most, but he hates them all the same.

4. He stops trying to kill himself, it does nothing. Besides, he always dies young, there is no point. He is on his fifth turn, when his last acquaintance from his generation dies, and Harry does not cry, does not allow himself the weakness.

5. Sometimes, he wakes up an old man (he always, immediately, passes away), some other days, an infant, (those days, he strives to die more quickly, but the mother's eyes still his movements. He always did have a soft heart), sometimes he wakes up around the adolescent ages, and he does not know if he feels more comfort or discomfort that the scar still stains his skin. He avoids dying now though, it takes effort he cannot afford, will not offer, to start over.

6. Harry realizes, being the 'Master of Death', only guarantees its resentment, and when he wishes to live, he dies, when he wishes to stay dead, he lives. It is a pain he grows accustomed to, accepts with a heavy heart. And when he starts forgetting what that exact shade of orange Ginny's hair was, he accepts that too.

7. He still ages normally, dies. But it is too much pain to make new 'friends', new acquaintances, so he shuns all company, afraid that he'll start forgetting them too. The logic doesn't make sense, but all Harry understands is pain, and that is enough to abhor human interaction and what it entails.

8. Harry is aware that the shift from death to living again must be difficult and time consuming for Death, so when he does die, it is with a petty satisfaction, when there is a soft sigh at the edge of his ear, he smiles.

9. He stops smiling when he wakes up with wrinkled skin, rain smoothing down his grin. He sighs, and remembers not to provoke it anymore.

10. He is resting outside an abandoned warehouse (it is where he woke up, and he is too lazy to move), when he meets him, the strange boy with green eyes and a sharp smirk.

* * *

He is resting outside an abandoned warehouse when he meets a god.

The rain precipitates slowly, each drop slipping off the roof and onto his trousers every now and then, and Harry gives a tired sigh. His muscles ache terribly, and Harry can not remember how he died this time. He's fifty percent sure it was a gun shooting, he must have provoked someone, or maybe he got run over. Harry blinks at the morbid possibilities and shakes the memories away. It doesn't matter anymore.

There's a soft sloshing, like someone stomping through the puddles, and Harry tilts his head to the side curiously. He is finally aware of his location, and wonders vaguely if he'll be shot again, but the idea quells at the sight of the dark haired boy.

"Stupid Thor," the boy is muttering, cursing. Harry can pick up "idiotic", "Midgard", and "abandoning", before he decides he doesn't want to know. It is around this moment the boy notices Harry's fallen form.

He quiets, lips tightly pressed together, before ambling to his position slowly, carefully. Harry's eyes linger on his strange outfit.

He clears his throat and Harry straightens.

"Human," the boy starts, arrogantly, disgusted at the prospect of even speaking to Harry, and Harry can't help making comparisons. The boy hesitates then, and his lips abandon it's earlier struggle to say something else. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know," Harry responds softly. The other boy scoffs at the statement, waves his hand and the wetness leaves his clothes without a single sound. Harry's eyes widen, it has been so long since he's seen magic.

"Magic?" he utters quietly, awed.

"Sorcery," the other corrects derisively, giving him a lingering stare, before moving to enter the building. The doors groan in protest, but open with a solid push, and Harry watches the boy leave. His muscles still ache, and Harry closes his eyes against the pain. He needs to talk to the boy.

In his struggle he doesn't notice the footsteps until they end near his figure. "What are you doing?"

"I can't move," Harry says, finally, hesitates on passing the information over to a potential threat, but comforts himself with the fact that if he really wanted to kill Harry, he would have already done so.

The boy is silent, turning his head to the outside, before placing a cold hand onto Harry's back.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks nervously, but the boy only replies with a simple "Silence."

His position is humiliating, he notes, curled against the other boy's chest, but the other does not acknowledge it, simply enters the warehouse and sets Harry against the wall.

"Thanks."

The other boy regards him silently, before stepping up to close the doors. Harry's hand curls around the wand in his pocket as he watches. When the boy returns Harry finally asks for his name.

The boy seems hesitant on offering a name but provides one anyways.

"Loki."

"Loki," Harry repeats, tongue curling around the strange name, before continuing, "are you a wizard?"

Loki gives him a long stare, face pinched, before the expression smooths over. "What of it, human? Do you think ill of sorcery?"

"No, no," Harry is quick to reassure, before giving what he hopes is a smile instead of a grimace, "I'm quite fond of magic, actually." The boy hums in reply, eyes narrowed. Harry's thoughts linger on 'human' and he wonders if Loki is some kind of elf.

"I thought all wizards had died out, or something," Harry offers, laughs awkwardly. For his years of knowledge and wisdom he still speaks without charisma, only adrenaline influenced his tongue for the better.

Loki grimaces, but blinks away the expression, as if emotions were sure to weaken him. "It would seem that way, wouldn't it?" He turns away, fingers twisting elegantly to straighten a few crates spilled in front on him, and says, "I wasn't aware Midgard had its own wizards. To be fair, I didn't expect much of Midgard at all."

Harry blinks at the confession, wonders what he means by Midgard. He tells Loki so.

"Earth, I think, is what you call it." Harry frowns at the revelation, eyes widening when he realizes what that means.  
"So, you're from another world?" He wishes he had paid more attention to astronomy now.

"Yes," Loki drawls, as if speaking to an incompetent individual, "much more, better, for lack of a better word, than this Earth." Harry thinks he's obligated to feel insulted, but can't find it in himself to care.

"What are you doing here anyways?" Harry asks when Loki starts inspecting his nails.

"I was stranded here by my idiotic brother," Loki replies calmly, and starts pacing. "He _should_ have realized his mistake by now." Harry notes the sharp twist in Loki's features, can't help but think '_insecure.'_

"What?" Loki hisses, and Harry startles, fingers tightening around his weapon. "What were you just thinking?" Loki demands.

"Nothing," Harry says, slowly, releasing his wand to hold up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I wasn't thinking anything."

Loki stares at him a little longer, before huffing, "If any being would be capable of 'not thinking anything', it would be a human." His statement reeks of sarcasm, but Harry takes it as forgiveness.

"What's your name?" he asks abruptly, and Harry starts.

"Harry." Loki frowns as if he performed some impolite gesture, but waves it away. He's about to speak again when a loud crack resounds against the sky, lightning accompanying it.

Loki smirks suddenly, "There he is." Harry watches with awe as Loki slams the doors open, wind shuffling in leaves, debris, and rain.

"Wait, where are you- hey!" he shouts when Loki moves to leave. The boy turns back with a scowl and demands impatiently, "What?"

"Where-" he falters, "what are you?"

Loki gives a sharp smirk, and the sky cracks again, thunderous. The light illuminates his face. "A god."

He disappears into the storm, and Harry can't help but look after in awe. Later, he will curse dramatic, arrogant beings as he moves to close the doors. But for now, he wonders.

* * *

**A/N:** i posted this before but something weird happened and i had to delete it. anyways, one shot lurking in my folder, decided to post it. might expand on it, but i doubt it. review.


	2. Chapter 2

It will be several years before Harry meets him again. And he doesn't know if the wait is worth it.

* * *

Harry regards the scene solemnly, eyes half hooded. A child lays at his feet, curled in a fetal position, hand wrapped around their stomach. A sign is collapsed next to him, words long stained by the rain, and Harry sighs.

Carefully, he takes off his torn cloak, hoping that whatever meager warmth it can provide is well worth it. He whispers a weak incantation, and watches the color return to the boy's face. The wand complies, sparking off a dull color.

He nudges the boy along to the shade, careful not to upset him from his sleep.

"Hey!" someone starts, and Harry falters. An elderly woman stomps up to him, and Harry is careful to avoid the splatters of water from her ungraceful feet.

"Are you harassing this child?" she admonishes, eyes intent on his. He shakes his head slowly, and she stares at him for a moment longer, before the lines around her eyes ease.

"I see," she says, softly, and Harry has to lean in to catch the words, "then, will you help an old woman?" Harry notes the stained dress, dirt scattered on the edges, and nods. It's the least he can do.

"Thank you," she says, and her unvarnished tone warms his pale face, if only a little. She directs him to the boy's feet, and with both their efforts, they manage to return to her dingy apartment.

"Careful, now," she murmurs, as they ease the boy onto the couch. Harry runs his hand over the plastic covering, bemused, but doesn't comment on it.

"The orphanage can't afford any more children, unfortunately," she is saying, drying the boy's face with a towel, before dabbing at her own. She offers the towel to him silently, and he refuses. "I pass him on my daily walks," she continues, a sad note to her voice, placing the towel back onto the coffee table, "and he's always alone. I figured, what's an old woman to do to?"

As she rambles on, Harry scrutinizes the room carefully, notes how organized about half of the room is, while the other is scattered. A book here, a slight shift in the furniture there.

"Ah," she says, slightly amused at Harry's distraction. He turns to her, afraid he'd offended her.

"I had a daughter, once," she sighs, settles on the couch, lifting the boy's head for space, and finding no where else to place it, lets his head on her lap. She smiles when he yawns.

"She was beautiful, my daughter," she continues, combing through the boy's wet hair meditatively, lost in thought, "and I was proud. She had gotten it from her father. Smart, too. Like me."

She chuckles, and Harry joins. He thinks if he doesn't she might just break.

"She was perfect. Unfortunately, everyone else thought that too," here her voice weakens. "She met that boy, that abomination of a boy. She thought he was perfect. But, I saw him for what he was. A no-good punk. She dropped out of school. And that was that."

Harry blinks. "She just left?"

"No, I kicked her out," she replies easily, "She wasn't my daughter anymore, after that scandal." A weak chuckle. So, she couldn't clean the area the daughter resided in the most?

"You're judging me, aren't you?" the woman smiles, "Everyone does."

Harry shakes his head. "It's not my right." Although, Harry can never think of leaving his children (the children he can't remember), he's done his fair share of horrible things.

The woman seems taken aback, staring at him with wide eyes. Then, the most painful smile he's ever seen.

"You know, you remind me of this other young man I know. Polite, kind, and just a little strange too."

"Strange?"

"Please, boy, try to be a little more introspective."

"Er, right." He decides not to argue.

She resumes carding her fingers through the child's hair, closing her eyes, as if recalling a forgotten memory. "He had dark hair, looked a little oily when I last saw him, but it might have been the rain. He was walking by this little boy," here she taps his scalp, "who still had the strength to beg for scraps, then. The man snapped at the boy, annoyed, I presume. I was going to interfere, but he left."

She pauses, frowning thoughtfully, before resuming.

"He came back the next day, though. Tossed a loaf of bread. Such a gift, what with the economy these days." Harry is silent.

"He comes by, sometimes, throws food at the boy. It's a little strange, but nice." Harry thinks it's ultimately strange, but doesn't comment.

"That reminds me, can you do me a favor?"

Harry hesitates, agrees reluctantly.

"Such a nice boy," she repeats, reaches inside a drawer for an envelope, and passes it on to Harry. Harry rubs his thumb against the smooth surface, resists the urge to open it.

"He comes by on Mondays, usually, which is tomorrow, I think." Harry doesn't offer input, unaware of the date himself.

"It'd be nice if you could pass on the envelope onto the man, for me. I haven't actually talked to him before, but I just want to offer thanks, both for James and myself."

"James?" Harry queries, tucking the envelope into his pocket.

"The boy's name."

"Right," Harry says, standing up, "well, it's been a pleasure to meet you ma'am. I'll make sure the man receives it."

She nods, relieved, and Harry leaves, just a little relieved too.

* * *

Harry ends up waiting back at the child's usual spot, unable to find another resting area. He throws a weak shield up, which battles the wet bullets for a few minutes to let him rest. He watches the rain wash over the street, filling in the cracks of concrete, carrying away trash. It is the sound he succumbs to, falls asleep to dreams of rain taking everything away, leaving only untainted nature in its wake.

…

Footsteps end near his ear, where it is flattened against concrete. The smell in the after math of rain is nauseating. Harry blinks when his stomach growls, straightens when something is thrown at his head. Experience catches the apple, and Harry regards the green thing distastefully. He hates sour apples.

"Where is the other one?" Harry starts at the sharp voice, and stands up. Blue eyes follow his movements, and Harry stills.

"Well?" he drawls. Harry notes how harsher his features has gotten, sharper even.

"Someone took him in," Harry replies.

"Very well," Loki says, carefully, turns to leave without comment.

"Wait!" Harry starts, drops the fruit, where it rolls along to the back of Loki's shoes, if the man notices, he doesn't mention it. Loki complies slowly, waits until Harry stops directly in front of him.

"What is it?" Loki asks, bored.

"Someone asked me to give this to you," Harry replies, takes out the creased envelope. Loki stares at him like he's the dirt beneath his shoes, and Harry continues, "It's from the old woman. About the little boy."

Loki takes the envelope, although reluctantly. He flips it open without delicacy, snapping open the document inside.

"Boy," he says, after a moment, a dry smile tugging at his lips, "what, exactly, am I supposed to do with this?"

"What of it?" Harry asks, and blinks when Loki brushes past him without a word, where the paper flutters to his feet. He reaches down to pluck the paper before it reaches the puddle, and twitches when he sees it.

Chicken scrawl, if he's ever seen it. Illegible scribbles, and the only word he can make out is 'oily treatment'. He sighs, turns around to explain, but the god is already gone.

A rude god, if he's ever seen one. He doesn't know who'll worship that guy. Or why.

_Polite, my arse._

* * *

**A/N:** so, yeah. i liked it. really creepy old lady though, supposed to come out all friendly. i feel like this chapter really pales in comparison to the first one. but what this story lacks in quality it makes up in quantity. decided to make this fic a small drabblefic type of story. with guest meetings from all the avengers cast. thanks for reading. feedback would be appreciated :)._  
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